A Picture of my Heart

I wish I had a camera that could capture the feeling in my heart, and then I could show it to you, and you would, maybe, finally understand. My words don’t want to come. My mind doesn’t wish to burden yours, but, if I had a camera, you might understand.

I promised, didn’t I, that I would always keep fighting. If I had that picture, from that camera, would the stress cracks show? The heart is a miracle of muscle, beating to keep us moving, keep our blood flowing. Mine still pumps, but if you squint as you look at the polaroid, the spidery lines cover my heart like lace. 

Even the nicest people have their limits, and some days I ponder the peace of simply staying put, wrapping the comforter over my head, puppy breath on my cheek, warm puppy body curled up in my fetal position lap. Every day I push away the irony of the comforter that brings no comfort, and I rise and shine and make my morning coffee. Yet, even the nicest people have their limits, and some days though I rise, my eyes remain dimmed, watery with lost dreams and wishes and hearthurt. 

I wish I had a camera, to snap the picture of my heart, to show you that I am still fighting, because I promised, didn’t I. I promised. Didn’t I.

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